The Golden Fleece
by Geeky-DMHG-Fan
Summary: Co-written with Medea Smyke. A missing scene from Catching Fire, in which Effie "convinces" Haymitch to wear his golden bracelet. Epilogue from Finnick's POV added.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: This story is a tag-team effort between me and the glorious Medea Smyke. I started it and got stuck, and she gladly stepped in and finished it for me. It takes place within the same universe as my Odd Couple story. But in the future. Hope you enjoy.

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**The Golden Fleece**

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I'm sitting, staring at the empty dining room table as I hold my head in my hands. I have a pounding headache, no doubt brought on by listening to those ridiculous Capitol sponsors drone on hour after hour. And without even a drop of alcohol. I know I promised those kids I'd stop drinking, but I'm not sure how much longer I can hold out.

"There you are, Haymitch," Effie trills, just before a large box is thrown onto the table with a dull thud.

Uhhh. Her voice is like a drill inserted straight into my brain.

I don't even look up as Effie begins to unpack her box, but she shoves whatever it is under my nose. It's a tray covered with a black cloth. Oooh, mysterious.

"Well, don't just sit there staring stupidly. Open it."

I have just enough energy to lift my head and scowl.

Without the fanfare she was planning, she rips off the velvet cover, revealing…jewelry. I mutter something under my breath, disbelieving how horrible this day is going.

"What was that?" Effie asks, her brown eyebrow arching primly.

Hmph. Her mouth is as filthy as mine. Still, I can't believe my luck that she would remember her idea of dressing us all the same.

Effie's fingers clench into fists, but she manages not to hit me. But only just. "I spoke with six different jewelers to get these. And even though you managed to have two Hunger Games winners in one year, they were still reluctant to have you wearing their products. Don't make me regret arguing your case to them."

There's still another fifteen minutes before Katniss and her lapdog return from training. Effie doesn't need me here for her to keep playing the martyr. But the second I stand up, she's scrambling to my side of the table, faster than any woman should in three inch heels.

"Uh, uh, uh. Not so fast," she says, slamming down on my shoulders. Hard. Someone so tiny shouldn't be that strong.

I try to back up my chair, but it wouldn't budge. She's behind me, immovable and implacable. A five foot three mountain of stubbornness. Her shadow falls over me as she leans forward, bringing her mouth next to my ear. The metallic gold of her wig scratches my face. And this close, I can tell she smells like wild flowers.

I shake my head, dislodging the idiocy from my thoughts.

"Now you are going to sit here, pick one of these out, and wear it," she hisses, her voice devoid of that atrocious Capitol accent, which manages to disappear whenever she's angry. She's angry a lot, and always at me. Fancy that.

"And if I don't?" I ask.

She pulls back, teeth arranged in her camera-ready grin. Then she does the unthinkable. Taps me on my nose with her finger, like I'm a dog. "Don't even entertain the thought. I'm certainly not."

Of all the times to be sober.

"Now stop growling, and choose one." Her perfectly manicured nails spread through the air, showcasing at least twenty different gold bracelets she has arranged on the dining room table. "Personally, I like this one." She runs her finger over a thin band with white stones embedded in it. Figures she'd choose the most feminine of the lot. Though I can't really call any of these pieces of jewelry manly, because what man is going to wear anything on his wrist other than a watch? And I don't even wear one of those.

"It even has pearls in it," she says, as if that's a selling point.

I snort, and she wrinkles her nose in disgust. So predictable.

"No. Absolutely not," I say with a smile, which goes completely unnoticed.

"How about this one?"

"Nope."

We do this about ten more times, and she's so angry, she doesn't even realize that I'm not looking at the bracelets.

"Alright! What is it going to take for me to get you to wear one of these?"

Hmm, bribery. This is new. Normally, I let her think she's bullied me into having her way, which I had planned on doing. But since she's offering, I might as well get something out of this. And I know just what I want.

"Alcohol."

Her lips thin, and she holds them together for a few seconds, thinking over my request. But rather than insult me or roll her eyes, she quietly says, "No."

I try not to show how desperate I am for something to drink. Right now, I'd even beg for one of those fruity drinks Effie's always sipping on. Well, was sipping on until she decided to stop drinking around me. "No?"

Effie clears her throat, then straightens her shoulders and raises her chin. "No more drinking for you."

"It's not up to you anyway." Which is true.

"I know. It's up to you, and you don't want to drink. And I'm not going to let you use me to do something you'll only hate yourself for afterward."

What the hell? Where did that insightfulness come from?

Effie clears her throat as she runs her hands over her already unwrinkled suit. "At any rate, I've done all the complicated work. All you have to do is wear the trinket. Can't you manage that without a drink?"

I cringe at the play on words, intentional or not. Are these bracelets a symbol of solidarity or the District 12 escort's dominance over a victor she considers less than a buffoon?

Effie raps her long, false fingernails on the tabletop in time with the pounding in my head. I cast a jaundiced eye on the obnoxious Capitol loot she managed to dig up. I'm tempted to pick one just for the pleasure of being left alone with my damned sobriety.

"You know," she adds. "Showing a little more support for Katniss and Peeta wouldn't hurt. Not if it's the last thing you'll be able to do for them."

That actually stings. I don't know if she's always been this good at kicking a man where it hurts, or if it's because I've lost my cushion. I realize that Effie is a bully. Which is odd considering she's almost a foot shorter than me, and has the face and freckles of a teenager. But she's somehow managed to get me to considerer wearing a man bracelet.

Somehow an idea forms in the bone-dry sponge of a brain I've got. It could really use a good soaking right now. Yet, I get the vague impression that I don't need to pick a _trinket_ for me. Not when it would look just as good on a certain victor who needs a way of presenting himself to my knuckleheaded mockingjay as a viable ally.

Effie hisses through her nose. _"Haymitch, choose a bracelet or so help me..."_

"Alcohol, woman," I roar. "That's my condition and I don't care if it comes from your medicine cabinet." I lay my head down on the table and gloat as she sputters.

Effie leaves the room, giving me the peace I need to formulate a plan for delivering the stupid thing to Finnick. Maybe I can send it to him wrapped around a delivery of flowers? He gets them by the truckload from his Capitol tramps on a daily basis, so it wouldn't be conspicuous.

She returns with an attendant who is carrying a silver tray and a single glass of red wine.

"At least it has some health benefits, unlike your usual concoctions," she grumbles.

I smirk over this victory, and especially her unhappy expression. Maybe her wig has lost its shine? It feels good to have a hand in tarnishing it. Perhaps then she'd stop wearing those infernal mops.

I take a sip, then drain the glass in one long pull.

"Well?" Her arms are crossed over her chest and she's tapping a shiny shoe on the carpeting.

"More wine."

"Not until you've chosen a bracelet."

I scan the table and pick the least offensive piece I can find. It's covered with flames, but other than that, it's pretty bland. Perfect. "What about this one?"

She frowns. "This one? Why?"

"You shouldn't have put it on the table if you didn't want me to choose it."

"But it's so boring." She lifts the wide band and inspects it, her mouth pouting in distaste. "Well, I suppose you'd better put it on."

"Later."

Effie practically snarls as she pages the attendant. "Mr. Abernathy needs a refill."

That's more like it. Who's the dog now?

I watch, pretty pleased with myself as the attendant comes back bearing the most glorious thing I've ever seen: a bottle of liquor.

While I'm salivating at the sight of liquid bliss, I feel something slide around my wrist and hear an ominous _snick_.

"Wha…"

Effie's smile widens, with a sparkle that matches the psychotic glint in her eyes. She laughs, tossing her golden hair over her shoulder. "See how nice it looks?" She turns to the attendant, still beaming. "I was mistaken. Mr. Abernathy has had enough to drink for the day."

I gape at the gold piece now gleaming on my wrist. Looks like a manacle. Or a dog collar.

I reach for my empty glass.

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A/N: Possible epilogue, in which Finnick may or may not respond well to Haymitch's advances, to be added...if interest is there.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Here's the epilogue. You can thank CaffeineConnoisseur for it. =D And of course, Medea Smyke who cowrote this with me. Hope you enjoy.**  


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Epilogue**

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"There you are!"

I finally find Mags sipping tea and gumming on shortbread in the little salon adjacent to the dining room. I've been storming up and down the fourth floor of the training center looking for her: my one source of consolation these days.

"Oh. It's you." Mags doesn't look up when I step through the doorway, just keeps working on that cookie.

"Someone's circulating pictures of me in that net all over the Capitol," I say, almost accusingly as I slam the door behind me. "Annie's going to see it."

"You think?" Mags mutters as I cast myself down on a divan. "Good afternoon to you too, Finnick."

I'm in such a bother that I ignore the barb. "It's not _fair_. You got to wear actual clothes to the opening ceremony. You don't have a…" I remember that the Capitol is always listening, "…a friend who's last memory will be of you trussed up like a fish, drooled over like a god by the lowest grade of modified humanity –if you can even call them humans." I turn to her, hoping to see her agree with me, but it looks like her eyes are lolling around in the back of her head. Is she rolling her eyes at me? Or falling asleep?

"Mags, are you listening to me?" 'Eyes bugging out of my head' is definitely not one of my better looks, but this is important!

I can't decide if the 'blah, blah, blah' sounds coming from her mouth is her mocking me or a result of the speech difficulties brought on by her stroke. I'll give her the benefit of the doubt.

"Of all the costuming blunders Agrippina could come up with – the net was a beauty. I had such hopes for that fishnet in an entirely different situation. Well, that's ruined. Now all I can think about are the things Annie and I will never get to do like…" I scratch my head, "like…" Should have planned that out a bit better. Thankfully Mags is an old woman and as such, has no idea about the hopes and desires of a 24-yeard old male.

Mags mutters something into her tea.

Contrary to popular belief, I do blush. As I try to keep my jaw from unhinging, I marvel about how her mind went to the same place mine did. I expect that from me, but from Mags? Annie and I have been… together, but I was fairly sure we kept it well-hidden. So to find out that Mags might know, or at least advocates our 'togetherness' is disconcerting. And disappointing. I should have taken full advantage of my opportunities.

I cough. "Well, that crossed my mind, but uh, there hasn't been a lot of privacy for that sort of thing."

"That's what closets are for, dear boy," she burbles. Then her eyebrows lift in genuine astonishment. "I'm surprised you didn't know that."

"How did you—" The idea that Mags knows more than me about the multiple uses of closets makes me shudder. Who is this woman, and what has she done to my Mags? It's like thinking about what your parents do behind closed doors. Or in Mags's case, your great-grandparents. Can they even still do that?

Mags clears her throat, drawing me out of very disturbing mental contemplations just seconds before there's a knock on the door. Uncanny how she does that.

The Capitol man-slut mask I perfected long ago snaps back into place as I study the perfect white crescents resting above my cuticles. To think my stylist Agrippina wanted to cover them up with painted on fish scales. Not the most cringe-worthy idea she's concocted, but still. A man as beautiful as me must have his standards. I am distinctintly non-fishlike. And while I might never see Annie again, if I do, the less she has to make fun of me about, the better. I still don't know how I'm going to live down my golden net outfit.

"Enter."

We can hear someone awkwardly pawing at the doorknob before a man with two baskets of hot-house flowers bumbles into the room. Capitol hybrids judging by the glittering paisley patterns on the heart-shaped petals.

"Er, District Four tribute—" he starts to read from a card.

Mags garbles something at the delivery man, which he doesn't understand. His impatient eyes flick in my direction.

With a languid flourish I indicate a corner of the room, which has been the designated resting place of all my fan mail and gifts. He sets the two baskets down on the side table there and leaves without closing the door.

I huff, "Well, that's rude—"

He immediately returns with a dolly overflowing with baskets and vases of more floral mutations. It stinks to high heaven.

"Must be for me," Mags mutters when the door closes behind the man.

I'm content to ignore my pile of gifts, but Mags always gets a kick out of the things my fans send me. Especially their attempts at poetry. I always bring them home after every Games. Her favorite was called "To Finnick, _who dares_ to spear my heart." She praised the poet for her remarkable skill with word play. I wasn't such a fan.

My interest already lost, I find other ways of entertaining myself. My mind is back on Annie and, courtesy of Mags, some wonderful combination of golden nets and closets.

In the corner of my eye, I see Mags drop something, and I put the brakes on my train of thought. As it slowly comes to a halt, I look up to find Mags shaking. My heart is somewhere in my throat as I race over to her.

"Mags, are you alright?"

Tears are streaming down her face, and I'm just about to yell for some help when I feel her hand at my elbow.

"You have to read this," she orders, in between gasps.

Is she nuts? Have me read some obsessive stalker's ode to Finnick's powerful trident as she lies dying? But the more I look at her, the more I realize she's not dying. And not crazy. Probably.

Picking up the dropped box, I read the card that rests on top. Usually, the script is more loopy and feminine. I can barely make out this chicken scratch.

"Finnick, I wish I could drown in the sensitive depths of your sea-green eyes. Here. Wear this. Haymitch."

What?! After reading it a few times, it still makes no sense. Haymitch knows about Annie, and I was pretty certain he had something going on with his District's escort.

By now Madge has finally stopped laughing hysterically. "Seems he managed to get that stubborn girl to be your ally in spite of you all your lip-licking and sugar-cube munching," she says with a congratulatory slap on my back.

Oh. Heh.

I nod, pretending like I knew that all along. Removing the card, I slip on the bracelet that was hidden underneath. I look at the thick band of gold that has flames are embossed around its circumference.

"What do you think?" I ask, modeling it as I flex my bicep. "Is it me?"

"Yes. Completely, utterly, 100 percent flaming."

"Excuse me?" I blink. Could it be that she isn't taking me seriously?

"Like your hair," she adds.

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**The End**


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